Lashmar was secretly offended that Lady Ogram should give a dinner-party in which he had no place.

“Anyone coming that I know?” he asked, off-hand.

“Let me see.  Yes, there’s Mrs. Toplady—­and Lord Dymchurch—­”

Dyce exclaimed: 

“What an extraordinary thing!  Dymchurch, who never went anywhere, seems all at once to be living in the thick of the world.  The other day, I found him at Mrs. Toplady’s, drinking tea.  Was it there he came to know Lady Ogram?”

“Yes.”  Constance smiled.  “Lady Ogram, you remember, much wished to meet him.”

“And he dines here?  I can’t understand it.”

“You are not very complimentary;” said Constance, with dry amusement.

“You know what I mean.  I shouldn’t have thought Lady Ogram would have had much attraction for him.”

Miss Bride laughed, a laugh of all but genuine gaiety.

“Hadn’t we better talk about your programme?” she resumed, in an altered voice, as though her humour had suddenly improved; “I should take counsel with Mr. Breakspeare, if I were you.  I fancy he likes to be consulted, and his activity will be none the less for it.”

Lashmar could not easily fix his thoughts on political tactics.  He talked impatiently, all the time absorbed in another subject; and at the first pause he took his leave.

Decidedly it offended him that he was left out from this evening’s dinner-party.  A suspicion, too, had broken upon his mind which he found very distasteful and perturbing.  Lady Ogram must have particular reasons for thus cultivating Lord Dymchurch’s acquaintance; conjecturing what they might be, he perceived how he had allowed himself to shape visions and dream dreams during the last day or two.  It was foolish, as he now saw plainly enough; in ambition, one must discern the probable, and steady one’s course thereby.  All at once, he felt a strong dislike of Lord Dymchurch, and even a certain contempt.  The man was not what he had thought him.

Crossing the street at Piccadilly Circus, he ran before a hansom, and from the hansom was waved a hand, a voice in the same moment calling out his name.  As a result of his stopping, be was very nearly run over by another cab; he escaped to the pavement; the hansom pulled up beside him, and he shook hands with Mrs. Woolstan.

“Are you going anywhere?” she asked, her eyes very wide as they gazed at him.

“Nowhere in particular.”

“Then do come with me, will you?  I have to buy a present for Len’s birthday, and I should be so glad of your help in choosing it.”

Dyce jumped into the vehicle, and, as his habit was, at once surveyed himself in the little looking-glass conveniently placed for that purpose.  The inspection never gratified him, and to-day less than usual.  Turning to his companion, he asked: 

“Does everybody look ugly in a hansom mirror?”

“What a question!  I’m sure I can’t tell you.”